Read The Fate of Destiny (Fates #1) Online

Authors: Danielle Bourdon

Tags: #Fantasy

The Fate of Destiny (Fates #1) (6 page)

BOOK: The Fate of Destiny (Fates #1)
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You are so not the tomboy type, Beelah Bosley. But that
would
be funny.” Farris left the spoon in the sink and threw out the tea bag once it was done steeping. Crossing to the chair adjacent to the couch, she set the mug on the table, glanced anxiously at her current story-in-progress, then went to yank the curtains over the windows.

Back in her chair, she flopped one leg over the arm, wincing at the stab of pain in her hip, and cradled her mug in her hands.


So, let's talk about alternate plans for Halloween.
If
we decide to go out. I don't think anyone will be visiting the Rocket anytime soon.”

Farris' stories would have to wait until later, after Bee fell asleep, before she could give them her undivided attention.

Chapter Four

It was past midnight by the time Emerson walked onto the Henson property. He scoped out the main house—which looked empty—and the garage set apart with the loft above. The crunch of dry grass under the soles of his muddy boots told him that the farmhouse and the garage had been spared the violence of the storm, which served his purpose here well. From the pocket of his coat he fished a box of matches that he'd gotten at a convenience store earlier after his 'talk' with Devon. Fiddling with it, shaking the thin wooden sticks inside, he geared up for what he had to do.

This was impossibly easy. It didn't even really require his talent; it only required that he light a match, toss it onto the grass near the garage, and give the flames an extra bit of fuel so it would engulf the structure and burn it to the ground.

The closer he got to the garage, the more weighted his legs felt. The heaviness was different. Unique.

Emerson realized he didn't want to light Farris' loft on fire, didn't want to bring her the pain it would inevitably cause when she came home from Beelah's place tomorrow to see nothing left but ashes.

And since when do you care, Emerson?
An inner voice taunted him, forcing him back to the reality that he was a Weaver of Chaos. He was
meant
to do these things. Since becoming a Weaver, it had enhanced the part of himself that was
closed off socially, making mingling a bit awkward. It made him edgier, less predictable, and often he had a difficult time caring for people he knew nothing about.

It made his job easier.

When he
did
care, he cared deeply and with a frightening passion that had scared more than one friend away. He knew all his flaws but could do little to change them.

Taking a match out of the box, he turned it over and over between his fingers. All he had to do was scrape it, watch the match flare to life, and toss it down.

Simple.

Yet it wasn't so simple at all.

There was something about Farris that made him hesitate. He couldn't put his finger on it, didn't understand why he felt like he should be protecting her instead of bringing her heartache.

Before he could contemplate more about the weirdness of it all, he struck the match and flipped it end over end into an ankle high patch of yellow, dead weeds at the base of the garage. For a moment, it seemed as if the flame wouldn't catch.

He waited. Smoke slithered up and dissipated on a gentle breeze.

Emerson muttered under his breath. He didn't want to fan the flames, so to speak, even though it looked like he would have to do something to make it burn.

Calling up a bit of Chaos, he drew an arc in the air with his hand, twisting the smoke into a tighter coil. The flames at the base burst to life, catching hold of the dead grass. A second after that, the fire lapped along the wood of the garage like a
greedy tongue, feeling out its prey, and when it took hold, it
took hold.

The corner of the garage caught, and Emerson knew that was all the Chaos he
needed to unleash. The fire itself would do the rest.

Disgruntled, he lowered his hand and slid the matchbook back into his coat pocket, turning away so he didn't have to watch the results of his destruction.

With an odd pang in his gut, he headed back the way he came, the crackle of fire ringing in his ears.

. . .

Shut away in her bedroom, lost in the current story, Farris was oblivious to anything but the events pouring out from the end of her pen. This particular character (as she thought of it), had a roller coaster youth that transferred over into his young adult life. Leonard Augustus Moon wore braces, loved jelly beans, broke his wrist riding a skateboard, had a severe case of chicken pox and owned a pet turtle named Scooter. He was shy, ambivalent, nosy and secretly mischievous. In his teens he fell for the most popular girl in school (who didn't know he even existed), tumbled off the stage during his debut in Macbeth, caught his hair on fire and failed his driving test twice.

Farris was never happier than right now, filling out all the fantastic details of her creations. She loved the whole process, loved the energy that flowed seamlessly through her when she wrote.

Some
day she would do this for a living.

Grinning down at the crinkly parchment page, she finished the last sentence and straightened her back. She got so caught up in writing that often her shoulders and neck cramped under the strain. Setting down her pen, she traced her fingertips over the slightly yellow edges of the paper, re-reading Leonard's adventures. His 'story' would be ten or twelve pages long by the time she was done.

Occasionally, she started a characters antics mid-way through their life, instead of from birth. It almost felt like she was picking up from where someone else left off, because those stories flowed as easily as the ones she started from scratch. Now and then, she fished back through her stacks and pulled out a finished story to change something critical in the middle.

Why this happened, she didn't know. Farris just understood she
needed
to make the changes, and so she did. Speaking of which, there was a story she needed to fix.

Standing up on her bed (there was no desk in the small bedroom), she turned around to face the tier of shelves she'd erected on the walls to hold the stacks of paper. Farris knew exactly which shelf, which stack and what color paper clip held the story she needed together.

If the shelves ever fell, it would brain her into her next life. Finding the green paper clip in the fourth stack on the third shelf, she eased it free of the rest.

So
many papers. It was like Pick-Up-Sticks to take one in the middle out and not topple the rest.

Liberating it, she crossed her ankles and twisted around, falling into an Indian style sit. For sleep, she'd changed into her favorite crushed velvet lounge pants
and
pull over shirt, a rare purchase from Victoria's Secret, her ultimate shopping destination. Every time she had a surge in tips, had paid all her bills and tucked away fifty bucks for gas, she hit up the store for something new.

In every day life she was a jeans and tee-shirt girl with a yen for flowery dresses on hot summer days. But at night she was all about her crushed velvet loungers when the weather turned crisp.

Gathering Leonard's story together, she paper-clipped it together (turquoise for old Leonard boy) and pulled off the green for the next.

Before she could pick up her pen, she caught a faint whiff of smoke. Farris paused and sat straighter. She took another deep breath.

The scent of smoke lingered.

Immediately she thought perhaps the lightning from earlier had caused a fire nearby and it had spread into Farmer Henson's fields. She scrambled off the bed and ran to her window. Because her bedroom was at the back of the loft, all she saw when she looked outside were the fields and the treeline.

No fire anywhere.

Except the smell was
much
stronger.

Leaning out her window, she glanced up at the eaves. Over the top of the loft, she saw wisps of smoke.

Gasping, she yanked back into the bedroom, crab-hop-crawled across the bed, and ran to open the door.


BEELAH! GET UP!” The hallway was so short that she arrived in the living room in time to see Bee, who was sleeping on the couch, bolt upright. Dressed in Hello Kitty footy jammies, auburn hair askew, she peeled the eye covers off and stared at Farris.


Why are you shouting? Farris, you sound like--”


There's a fire!” Farris could see the glow past the teeny tiny part in the curtains. She ran to the window and pulled the drapes back.

Fire had raced up the side of the garage toward the roof. A corner of the small balcony was on fire, too.

Farris almost fainted.

Her stories.
Her stories were going to burn! For an awful moment, she forgot about her and Beelah's own safety. The crushing need to save her work was so intense that a dizzy spell gripped her.

Beelah screamed when she saw the fire.


Get a bucket from under the sink! We can still put it out!” Farris ran to the door. The second she touched the knob it felt warm. Not boiling hot, but...warm.

She fretted the fire was already on the stairs. The only way out if the stairs went was the front balcony and her back bedroom window. It was a straight fall to the ground. Not lethal, but if they landed wrong, it might mean a broken bone.

Beelah, bucket swinging wildly from her hand, darted over to Farris. “Open the door, let's go! Farris, it's coming!”


I'm afraid to open the door,” Farris admitted. “The knob is warm and getting warmer. We have to go over the balcony.”

Both girls glanced that way. They could see tiny licks of flame traveling the outer edge. It was almost too late.


Come on!” Beelah shoved Farris for the balcony. The girls ran to the door and flung it open.

Farris coughed when a gout of smoke curled over the balcony railing.


Jump!” Beelah screeched and waved her hand like that might combat the slowly moving flame.


It's all along the front edge!” Farris could see the fire, and although it hadn't engulfed the balcony yet, it was tracing the perimeter.

Beelah spoke past a sob. “We're not going to make it.”

Chapter Five

Emerson set a foot on the asphalt from the dirt road on Henson's property. He turned left, shoved his hands in the pocket of his overcoat, and started walking back toward town. Every other step he wanted to glance back at the garage to see how fast it was burning.

He didn't.

There was no sense in over thinking it or second guessing his action. The odd heaviness in his gut felt awkward and foreign, a sensation he wasn't used to.

Less than fifty steps from the end of the driveway, a scream split the air.

Emerson stopped dead and whipped a look back at the garage. Even across the distance, he could see two figures back-lit beyond the open door.

Someone was home.

Devon had told him Farris would be at Beelah's for the night.

A growl ripped from his throat and he burst into a run, boots slapping the asphalt until he hit dirt. Even as he ran, he put his hands toward the heavens and rumbled out a chant, calling up a storm from the cumulus collection of clouds nearby. They thickened, rolling over one another, causing thunder to crack so hard and loud that it startled the girls, both of them, into another scream.

No hose or bucket would put the fire out fast enough.

Not to suit him.

Bringing his hands down, the hair on the back of his neck standing on end, he charged toward the garage. Fire had spread all along the edge of the balcony, and while it wasn't fully involved, he knew the girls would be skittish to dangle their legs over the flame.


Farris! Beelah! Come out on the balcony and jump!” Emerson speared an impatient glance at the sky.

Any time now.

Lightning flashed, more thunder boomed.

Beelah appeared at the door, staring out, looking frightened beyond reason.

Emerson stopped where she could see him, not far beyond the balcony, and waved his arms in a 'jump' fashion. “I'll catch you, hurry up!”


It's on fire!” she shouted back.


It won't burn you. Jump before it's too late!” Emerson saw that the fire was still contained to the outside of the garage and hadn't fully reached the roof yet.

The building was salvageable.

Rain came down in a sudden, hard sheet.

The girls huddled near the door, afraid to come out onto the balcony. When they saw the rain, Farris pushed Beelah through the door.


Go, jump!”

Beelah scampered to the balcony rail which was only a few steps from the door. “The feet of my jammies are melting!”


Just jump over the rail!” Emerson stood right below, shifting back and forth depending which way Beelah leaned. She tried one spot, then went to the far corner the furthest from the flames.

BOOK: The Fate of Destiny (Fates #1)
10.26Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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